


The pursuit of self-indulgence

by FreeShavocadoo



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Crack Pairings, Javier has the worst taste in men, M/M, Weird Dynamics, bad decision making, hedonistic behaviour, unconventional pairing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-11-02 05:36:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20638973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreeShavocadoo/pseuds/FreeShavocadoo
Summary: For as long as he could remember, he’d managed to fuck up most meaningful events and relationships in his life in the pursuit of pure hedonistic behaviour. Instant gratification and instant regret tended to be the formula he’d carried from his early teens into adulthood, and he’d yet to find a way to snap out of it.La Dispensariá was a familiar haunt to all in Medellín who favoured such behaviour, with loose lips, fast liquor and minimal judgement.It was also where he’d met his biggest mistake, regret and object of his desires to date.





	1. Chapter 1

Anyone who knew him could tell you that Javier Pen͂a was a liability.

If it wasn’t his poor decision-making skills, his fondness for alcohol or late-night company, then it certainly had to be a lack of clarity or inhibitions the second alcohol passed his lips.

It didn’t matter how many times Steve would tell him he needed to slow down, or how many times Carrillo chastised him for either his methods for getting information, or his tendency to compromise it due to his relationship with his informants. Javier Pen͂a was, and would always be, a liability.

For as long as he could remember, he’d managed to fuck up most meaningful events and relationships in his life in the pursuit of pure hedonistic behaviour. Instant gratification and instant regret tended to be the formula he’d carried from his early teens into adulthood, and he’d yet to find a way to snap out of it.

La Dispensariá was a familiar haunt to all in Medellín who favoured such behaviour, with loose lips, fast liquor and minimal judgement.

It was also where he’d met his biggest mistake, regret and object of his desires to date.

* * *

_It’d been a long week. Scratch that, it’d been a long few months. Colombia was packed to capacity full of crime, but drug trafficking seemed to occupy the underbelly of the city of Medellín, no matter how many nightclubs were stuffed in the outer circle of the city. In fact, the further away you strayed from the centre of the city, the more likely the neighbourhood would be home to violence, prostitution, drug abuse and overall criminal behaviour._

_But he could hardly choose to be picky._

_Nowadays any venue catering to the police or government officials tended to be under constant risk of being bombed, shot up or otherwise infiltrated. It wasn’t just the risk that put Pen͂a_ _off, though. That much was obvious in his choice of venue tonight; it was the scrutinising and curious stares from the police force, the constant questions or small talk. _

_No, that wouldn’t do tonight. Tonight was for going home blurry-eyed and hazy, lying down on his couch because he couldn’t reach his bed and ruing the day he step foot into Colombia and heard the name ‘Escobar’._

_The more he thought about his initial months in Colombia, the more it felt like an absolute waste of time. They knew of Escobar’s routes, they knew of his connections in Miami, yet they barely had so much as a fucking board full of anything else. No inner circle, other than his family and cousin Gustavo, and no idea where he frequented enough to find the information they were lacking. _

_Pen͂a was certain he was probably sat amongst Sicario’s as he tended to his whiskey, a fraction hazier than he had been an hour ago when he’d first sat down at the bar. _

_It was an odd night, indeed._

_Several women had shuffled, strutted and swayed past, each giving him a sultry smile, yet he remained sat in his seat. An affirming nod, perhaps, or an amused recognition in their direction, but none of the usual bravado of pursuing them out of the door to whoever’s apartment they reached first. _

_He wasn’t really craving softness tonight._

_He couldn’t be blamed for ignoring the warning signs in his head when he lays eyes upon a beautiful, statuesque and solemn man. It’s not that he’s entirely ignoring the feeling of danger in the pit of his stomach when eyes flit back to Pen͂a’s immediately, as if the stranger is aware he’s being watched. He’s fully aware and immersed in the feeling, flooding his system with giddy adrenaline and anticipation._

_It’d been a while since he’d entertained the notion of being with a man. It wasn’t that he loathed the idea. On the contrary, he found men, much like women, served a particular purpose based on his preferences and mood. Men were traditionally linked to his more impulsive, irrational and dangerous behaviour, though. He’d always favoured men when he was seeking trouble or a thrill, for something a little rougher around the edges._

_Smoothed as the stranger’s hair was, as groomed as his facial hair was, the gold chain around his neck and glimmering watch around his wrist made it plain he was not at the bottom of the ladder in Colombia. A tailored suit and half-open, blood-red shirt gave the distinctive impression that this was a man not to be trifled with._

_Naturally, this meant that Pen͂a just had to wave the bartender over to pay for the stranger’s next drink, head swimming with the possible scenarios that could follow. It was a dangerous game to play in a place where the attitude to men with inclinations outside of the norm were so visceral. Yet Pen͂a is more aware than most that this tends not to stop the type of men who simply deem attraction to be linked to general convenience rather than gender. _

_He just hoped that the stranger felt that way, too._

_Minutes pass, by which time Pen͂a is onto another glass of whiskey, head resting on his hand as he stares forlornly at the dancefloor, wondering why he seems to drop more than he peaks nowadays._

_“Is this a gift,” the voice is low, gravelly and captivating, “or is it an exchange?”_

_Pen͂a swivels in his chair to face the handsome stranger, even more captivating under the strobe lights of the club up close than he had been from a distance. Pen͂a was sadly all to familiar with the ‘club-lighting’ effect, and thankfully on this occasion he had not seemed to choose an object of desire based on blurred vision and misleading overhead lighting. _

_On the contrary, the man’s eyes were a light, warm brown. They almost seemed to swim with green, which Pen͂a noticed purely from the fact he struggled to look away. The quiet intensity of the stranger was mirrored in his posture, hands in his pockets, directly facing Pen͂a and not breaking eye-contact for a single second._

_Less of a veiled threat and more of a suspended one._

_“Well I guess that would depend on you.” Pen͂a answers his question candidly, already buzzed from the alcohol and having the feeling that the man isn’t the type to abide by, nor have the patience for lying._

_“Judging by your desperation,” the stranger eyes Pen͂a’s mounting line of empty glasses, eyes flitting back to him, unnervingly unreadable, “I would say a gift.”_

_“This?” Pen͂a looks back at his empty glasses, laughing delightedly. “This is nothing.”_

_The stranger hums noncommittally, not reacting to Pen͂a’s laughter and merely running his fingers through his hair. The gold of the rings on his fingers catches Pen͂a’s eyes, and when he adjusts the collar of his shirt where his gold chain lies, Pen͂a’s eyes can only stare fixatedly at the man’s chest, exposed to his eyes._

_For the first time, the stranger’s lips twitch, as if he is only giving Pen͂a the ability to see his moderate amusement because he deems it worth his time._

_“Do I get a name?” Pen͂a moves his eyes from the stretch of the man’s neck, vaguely aware that he’s been staring for a ludicrous amount of time at the exposed skin of a man to which he’s gifted one drink and shared few words._

_“No.” He says simply, reaching to grab the drink Pen͂a had bought for him from the table, drinking it all in a few smooth swigs with his head tipped back. Vaguely, Pen͂a’s eyes are entranced once more by the movement of the muscles in the man’s neck, finding it more erotic than it has any right to be._

_He places the glass on the bar without so much as a sound, another red flag, Pen͂a thinks, but he can’t quite find the motivation to care._

_When the man motions softly with his head towards the door, Pen͂a both ignores and follows his instincts, standing swiftly and walking out of the club without looking back to see if the stranger is following him. Assuming by the obvious cues that the man is private, Pen͂a simply heads in the direction of his apartment, feet falling down the nearest side-street as he continues his pursuit of hedonism. _

_Before he can exit the side street, his back hits the cold brick wall behind him, the concrete biting into his leather jacket enough to cause a sensation that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. A calloused hand grips his jaw, surprisingly soft lips against his own making Pen͂a sigh contentedly, leaning into the stranger._

_It’s like the air is being knocked from his lungs as the man’s hands grip onto his waist, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss so quickly and efficiently that Pen͂a feels more light-headed from this than he did from the alcohol._

_He’s pushed forward to the exit of the side street, a silent command. He makes his way to his apartment faster this time, the stranger pursuing silently, watchfully and shrewdly. _

_Maybe Pen͂a’s hands fumble when he’s trying to put his key into the door. Maybe he flings his keys too hastily onto the table in the hallway, so hastily that they skid right off onto the floor. Maybe when he takes his jacket off and walks to his bedroom, he feels for once, oddly exposed._

_The stranger seems to have no semblance of embarrassment or judgement. On the contrary, he slides his jacket off and places it carefully on the back of one of Pen͂a’s chairs. He unbuttons his shirt with startling ease, placing that too, on the back of the chair. It doesn’t take long to realise that this is a man of strict routine._

_“Javier.” Pen͂a says simply, nosing near the man’s neck to avoid the amused expression he’s greeted with in return for his statement. _

_“Javier,” he repeats, slow and smooth, “lie back for me.”_

_It’s always been a source of amusement and annoyance in Pen͂a’s life. That he responds instantly to commands, suggestions and authoritative behaviour in the bedroom but seems to defy it in every sense in the workplace._

_It’s like nothing Pen͂a’s ever experienced before. It’s hard to put into coherent or adequate words. _

_He’s never ceded as much control as he did that night, nor had he ever had to rely so much on a trust that was built in a matter of a few words and hours. Roberto, he’d said his name was, under the dull light of the moon filtering in through the thin curtains, staring down at Pen͂a with a sharp intensity that nobody else would ever be able to hold under such intense pleasure. His hands were firm, his movements all calculated down to a fine art. _

_Pen͂a thought he’d experienced most of what there was to offer in the bedroom, considering his penchant for inviting everyone there. It turned out, however, he had much more to experience. _

_He’d been left with an empty but pristine bed in the morning, several questions and an unyielding longing for a man who said fewer words and had managed to irreversibly ruin Pen͂a’s future sex life by comparison._

* * *

“Look at this.” Carrillo points towards a sizeable board, full of surveillance pictures and names, notes and string.

At the top, Pablo Escobar sits, smirking for the mugshot that officially ruined his dreams of becoming President of Colombia. The web weaves outward, showing a number of Sicario’s that are mostly recent additions to the DEA’s and Search Bloc’s awareness. Pen͂a’s eyes flick from picture to picture, rarely lingering for long. Until he spots a pair of eyes that seem to watch him through the picture, making immense heat pool in his stomach.

“Poison.” Carrillo answers, shrewd enough to catch Pen͂a’s gaze but distracted enough to misplace the meaning behind it. “Escobar’s favourite hitman. I can guarantee he’s probably been the one behind the gun for most of the political assassinations. Police, too.”

Pen͂a allows himself to swallow as much air as his lungs can intake, cursing himself inwardly and repeatedly for his bad fucking choices and worse fucking obliviousness.

Here Carrillo is, sacrificing several men of Search Bloc a day and slaving over paperwork and field work to get just a measly picture of a man Pen͂a had willingly and enthusiastically slept with.

Typical.

* * *

Finally, Pen͂a thinks. They’ve finally managed to catch up with some of the Escobar’s men. As per usual, they are denied specifics based on the simple fact that a call has been picked up by the CIA, they’ve been given a general location and have spotted a generic car. The anticipation is heavy, though. After weeks of minimal results, of Escobar managing to evade any possible capture and only solidify his position as the King of Cocaine, Pen͂a and Murphy need results.

It’s easy to hear the sounds of a potential argument through the window of one of the run-down houses, even if they are walking a snail’s pace to avoid detection. The last thing they need is a chase.

Which, naturally, is what they end up getting.

Murphy darts after Sure Shot first, limbs flying everywhere as he takes off down a side street. Pen͂a already felt like this was a bad idea when they arrived, but now with the addition of a foot-pursuit after Sicario’s who knew this area like the back of their hands? It was even worse.

He manages to speed around the corner after the other Sicario, seeing only a flash of brown hair before the Sicario swings over a wall and climbs up onto a rooftop.

_I hate my job._

It takes Pen͂a four rooftops to catch up with the man, by pure luck of a shortcut he’d accidentally taken when he’d slid off one roof onto a lower, flatter one. When the Sicario turns, he wishes he hadn’t.

“Javier.” He says conversationally, as if he doesn’t have a gun clasped in his gold-ringed hand.

“Poison.” Pen͂a responds, noting the way Roberto, no – Poison’s eyes narrow a fraction. “Care to turn yourself in?”

Poison regards him slowly, looking him up and down before making unwavering eye-contact once more. “You’re in no state to pursue me. You should cut your losses.”  


“Is that so?” Pen͂a glares, angry at the bruises he can feel forming on his shins, angry at Poison for being another alcohol-fuelled mistake he can’t shake from his system, and angry at Colombia for taking his vices and seemingly increasing them by tenfold.

Poison nods, matter of factly. He even pockets his gun, taking swift steps forward until he stands in front of Pen͂a.

Once again, Pen͂a is distracted by the warmth in his eyes. The strength of his shoulders, the pride of his posture. Once again, Poison seems to know exactly what he’s thinking.

“Javier.” He brushes a thumb over Pen͂a’s bottom lip, staring intently. “You shouldn’t play games that you’re always going to lose.”

He leans forward into a searing kiss, gripping onto Pen͂a’s hair and the back of his shirt, moulding into him with startling ease.

Then he jumps off the side of the building, clattering through the sheet-metal of the lower roof, emerging seconds later bloody but still functioning, grabbing onto a nearby motorcycle and granting Pen͂a one last glance over his shoulder before he rides off into the distance.

_Well,_ Pen͂a thinks, gun discarded on the floor after another kiss that will be forever implanted in his memory, _at least I didn’t get shot._


	2. Chapter 2

_At least I didn’t get shot, indeed,_ Pen͂a thinks, shaking his head gently.

The sunlight filters through the window, swaying with the curtains and casting a warmth across the bedroom. The woman lay beside him - _Vanessa? No, Isabella. Valentina? _stirs slightly, but simply stretches out, letting the sun cast over her tanned skin as she buries her face back into the pillow. Pen͂a twirls some of her dark hair around his finger absent-mindedly, inhaling the smell of her nearly-overpoweringly sweet perfume as he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling.

Bad decision maker doesn’t cut it.

It’d been the type of week he hadn’t had since he’d first stepped foot in Colombia, careless and avoidant. A new woman in his bedroom every night, a day of work indistinguishable from the next, the taste of alcohol or a woman’s sweet lip balm on his lips every night. Steve didn’t say anything, though his stares over the files he read daily spoke very obvious tones of his judgement and foreboding attitude. He didn’t need to _say _that Pen͂a needed to be careful, that now was a critical time in their operation. Pen͂a knew. He just didn’t care.

Steve had never asked what had happened on the rooftop when they were in pursuit of Sicario’s, presumably due to his own annoyance at being unable to catch up with Sure Shot. Pen͂a isn’t sure what he’d say beyond a dull ‘I couldn’t catch up with him’.

Those same warm eyes haunted him every fucking night in his sleep, the same intense and unreadable expression hovered over him in dreams that were both dreadful and incredible. People always spoke about the allure of a forbidden relationship, but Pen͂a can’t help but think this takes the cake.

Stretching out, he’s suddenly aware of the light bruising dotted across his hips and thighs and it makes him ache in a way he isn’t sure of. Is it longing? Is it disappointment? All he knows is that beneath the bruises, a man who seems to have little conscience, but immense presence has inched his way under Pen͂a’s skin so deep, he’s unsure if he’ll recover.

The night at La Dispensariá wasn’t the first and last night they’d spent together.

_There’s a slight draft drifting through the window, enough that Pe__n͂a instantly seeks the warmth of the body beside him, dreary-eyed and needy. The second his hands land on a toned back, his fingers running over uneven and scarred skin, he remembers who he’s lying beside. Poison’s facial hair scratches at Pe__n͂a’s shoulder as he lifts his head, eyes alarmingly alert considering he’s just awoken from a deep sleep._

_“What?” Poison’s voice is gravelly from sleep, inquisitive. “Why are you looking at me like that?”_

_He stretches, in a manner reminiscent to a cat, until he’s lying on his back with his head turned towards Pe_ _n͂a. Long eyelashes flutter as he blinks slowly, deliberately, observantly. _

_“I’m not allowed to glance at you?” Pe__n͂a asks, bemused by the affronted look he gets in return._ _“You show up at my doorstep two weeks after you abandoned me in the morning, and I’m not even allowed to stare?_

_“Abandoned?” Poison scoffs, running his fingers through his hair to smooth it down. “Dramatic.”_

_“Why exactly did you knock on my door?” Pe_ _n͂a can’t help but ask, even though he knows it seems futile with a man that screams of enigmatic energy, intent to keep himself a mystery rather than make himself known to anyone._

_“Does it matter?” Poison replies, after a brief pause, sitting up as the sheets fall to his hips. His statement is only deemed ineffective when Pe_ _n͂a sees the multitude of scars that also litter his torso, and he’s certain there’s more than one bullet wound. He wonders, for a moment, who it is he’s letting into his house._

_“Yes.” Pe_ _n͂a sits up as well, hair tousled and hips sore. “It does.”_

_“It doesn’t matter to you why I came here,” Poison stands, pulling on clothes at a relatively slow pace, maintaining eye-contact, “it matters to you who I **am**.”_

_Pe_ _n͂a merely watches as Poison buttons up his shirt, as efficient as ever. “But if it had mattered to you that much, you wouldn’t have taken me home with you the first time.”_

_“Instinct is a funny thing.” Pe_ _n͂a muses, leaning back on his elbows as he ponders just how reliable his instincts are._

_Poison snorts, shooting Pe_ _n͂a a moderately scathing look. “It is when you ignore it entirely, which you did.”_

_Pe_ _n͂a pretends not to notice the clear imprint of a gun in the pocket of Poison’s suit jacket, the same way his eyes skirted over bullet-wounds without even attempting to come up with explanations. There weren’t any good ones, so he’d just have to make do with avoidance instead._

_Poison adjusts his necklace, walking over to the edge of the bed where Pe_ _n͂a lies as if he has all the time in the world. He stares intently, so blazing that Pe_ _n͂a feels moderately embarrassed at his lack of clothing for once in his life. Poison simply hums, as though he’s affirming something, tilting Pe_ _n͂a’s chin up to give him a slow, unhurried kiss, fingers tracing through the hair at the nape of Pe_ _n͂a’s neck._

_He walks to the door silently, glancing back for a mere second before walking out of the door._

_Pe_ _n͂a doesn’t even acknowledge the power imbalance of knowing so little about a man who knows where he lives, and who invites himself in so readily. It’s not as if Pe_ _n͂a’s been an open book with him either, but all he knows is the name Roberto and the fact that he has more questions than answers._

_He rolls over and stuffs his head in the pillow, hoping for one startling moment that Steve didn’t see the man leave his apartment._

He wonders exactly what he’d do if Poison walked through the door right now. He’s not sure it’s a thought he’d want to linger on, as their last interaction all but proved that he didn’t know if he was staying or going. He felt immense guilt every second he spent thinking about Poison, every second he struggled to acknowledge that the man had been responsible for an incomprehensible amount of murders.

But was that the same man that lay beside him, tracing lazy lines up and down his back and telling him that he should trust his instincts?

It’s laughable that he barely disguised all of the aspects of himself that should’ve revealed to Pen͂a that he should’ve avoided Poison at all costs, especially when he openly tells him that his instincts should be trusted and not ignored.

Isabella, no- _Valentina _lifts her head from the pillow, shooting him a disgruntled look. He’s not sure what he’s done to earn it, but he struggles to care. Stretching for his wallet, he hands her money, ignoring the huff of indignation it gets him in return.

“Always a charmer.” She says, her voice too light, too delicate.

“You don’t know the half of it.” He chuckles bitterly, walking to the bathroom without looking back at her to watch her get dressed.

He was totally fucked.

* * *

“Look, all I’m saying is that you need to cut the shit.” Steve’s voice is, as usual, agitated and increasing in volume the more agitated he gets.

“Steve, I don’t need-,”

“What you fuckin’ need is to stop thinking with your dick and stop thinking about whatever hooker it is you’re hung up on.” He retorts before Pen͂a can get a word in, scowling at him.

“That’s a pretty bold assumption.” Pen͂a takes a swig of his beer, eyeing his surroundings as if he’s interested in some dive bar in the middle of Medellín more than he is in Steve’s somewhat accurate evaluations.

“I know you.” He glares at Pen͂a over his beer, blue eyes startlingly sharp. “Whatever it is you’re pining after, you’re only gonna fuck yourself and everyone around you over until you leave it or fix it.”

“Okay, doctor Murphy,” Pen͂a can’t keep the sarcasm from his voice, “how much did this session cost?”

Steve smiles sardonically. “I know you’re used to paying for your company, but this one’s on the house.”

Pen͂a laughs, a genuine laugh, leaning to smack Steve on the back. “I guess that’s true.”

Steve was impatient, irrational and depending on the situation, too moral. Yet, unlike most of the men Pen͂a had met throughout his career in both Colombia and America, Steve was honest, and he was _good_. It was more than Pen͂a could say for himself, he mainly just hoped that Steve remained intact when all was said and done in Colombia.

Pen͂a knew it was unlikely he’d come out unscathed, but he had higher hopes for Steve. Carrillo was probably just as fucked as Pen͂a was but in an entirely different way. Carrillo’s crusade would be his downfall, his dedication to catching Escobar consumed most of his existence as of late, which undoubtedly would lead to his demise later down the line.

Not that Pen͂a liked to think about it much.

“I’ve gotta get home.” Steve pulls on his jacket, looking disgruntled, but more placated than he had at the beginning of their conversation. “Connie doesn’t want me out too late.”

Pen͂a can’t disguise his laughter, which only increases at the look of rage on Steve’s face. “_OooooOo. _Connie wants you home by _curfew_!”

Steve huffs, smacking the back of Pen͂a’s head, none too gently. “Asshole. ‘Least I have someone at home waiting for me.”

Pen͂a chuckles. “I’m glad I don’t have a curfew, thanks.”

Though he wants to ignore it, he does feel some semblance of longing and bitterness at Steve’s comments. He does have a point, Pen͂a doesn’t have someone who’s waiting at home for him, concerned about his well-being. Sure, he was comfortable with temporary situations and temporary relationships, he’d proven on more than one occasion commitment was a struggle for himself. It didn’t make it an easier pill to swallow.

He heads out of the door with Steve, saying their goodbyes as Steve heads off in the opposite direction to Pen͂a, at Pen͂a’s insistence he would rather die than go home this early. Mainly, he’s avoiding going home now because of the dull awareness that he is going back to an empty home.

Walking the familiar path to one of the brothel’s he spends far too much time in, he ducks onto a side street enveloped in complete darkness. Before he has the chance to listen to his instinct, a newfound habit, a shadowy figure seems to emerge from thin air. Pen͂a manages to yank his gun from his hip, thankful for once that he didn’t discard it in the office as he had done on many an occasion, pointing it at the figure.

“Come out.” He says, trying to ignore the slight haze of the alcohol on his system.

Of course he’d end up in an alleyway with his gun out, half-drunk from an entire afternoon of drinking.

The figure walks forward until Pen͂a’s gun is pressed against their abdomen, standing unflinching before him with hard eyes and laser-sharp focus.

“Agent Pen͂a,” he says, as though it’s a game for him, “I don’t think you should be walking the streets at this time of night by yourself in your state.”

“_Poison._” Pen͂a spits, hazy, resentful and regretful. “It’s because of people like _you_ that nobody can fucking walk around this city at night.”

Poison lets out an outtake of breath, Pen͂a isn’t sure if it’s a laugh or a sigh. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with the nightlife when you carried on going back to La Dispensariá.”

He’s not sure what overcomes him when he pockets his gun and punches Poison in his jaw, but it brings him immense satisfaction to see the look of mild shock on his face when he moves his hand up to what will inevitably be a bruise tomorrow morning.

“Fucking liar.” Pen͂a’s voice is low, aware that though they might be alone right now, all it’d take is one raised voice for anyone to investigate what was going on. People could be nosy to their own detriment.

Poison cradles his jaw briefly, dropping his hand after rolling his jaw once. “When, exactly, did I _lie_?”

His eyes are blazing, made more unnerving by how calm his posture is after being punched. There’s a silent indignation to his voice, a challenge.

“What?” Pen͂a can’t hide the confusion in his voice, even if it is still angry.

“I said,” Poison moves his hand against the wall behind Pen͂a’s head, trapping him, “when did I _lie _to you?”

Pen͂a’s mouth moves, but no sound seems to want to come out. He’s not sure he wants to talk, but he also doesn’t want to give Poison the satisfaction of remaining silent.

“You never asked me anything,” Poison continues, finger running across Pen͂a’s jaw, mirroring the exact spot Pen͂a had punched him moments ago, “you never wanted to because you knew nothing good would come of it. And you didn’t _care_.”

“That’s a lie.” He replies, ignoring the way he’s desperately trying not to lean into Poison’s touch. “You just avoided my questions.”

“It’s not exactly hard to tell what I do for a living, Agent _Pe__n͂a_,” Poison whispers in his ear, “give yourself some credit. You’re not that stupid.”

Pen͂a tries not to breathe too deeply. “Maybe I am.”

Poison drags his lips across Pen͂a’s neck, slow and taunting. “Maybe you are.”

This time, Pen͂a makes Poison wait around the corner before he brings him into his apartment.

He doesn’t need Steve’s advice on _this _particular relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crack pairings are life.  
Comments always appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> TOTAL crack pairing, I know. It seems to be my speciality, though.  
Do let me know what you think, I always love getting feedback in comments!


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